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CHAPTER FOUR
Massimo
My past so infrequently came back to bite me in the ass.
I guess that was thanks largely to the fact that my job came with a lot of, let’s say… “finality.”
It wasn’t like someone I dealt with years ago would come back and start causing problems. Since, you know, they were all dead.
And as for women, well, we always had an understanding. It was all just good, sweaty fun. No commitments. Hell, no overnights.
Outside of that, the only people I engaged with were my family members.
But, I guess, there were always loose ends.
Like the one standing there in between rows of calla lilies that had just been photographed for a prominent magazine.
I’d seen her standing there from the parking lot as I climbed out of my car.
I hadn’t thought much of it, figuring it was maybe one of the employees who’d gotten to work early, and was waiting for the manager to get in so they could get inside.
But it wasn’t long until I realized that the skinny jeans and lightweight coral sweater were not the typical work uniform.
Figuring it was some local trying to get pictures for their blog or social media or something, I’d approached with a bit of an attitude.
I didn’t give a shit if people wanted to take pictures. But they would at least buy a glass of wine before they did it. And while the winery was open so the staff could make sure they weren’t fucking with the flowers.
We’d once had some “influencer” come and sprinkle all the roses with glitter because it fit her “aesthetic” or “brand” or some other bullshit like that.
Glitter on the flowers was relatively harmless in and of itself. But the problem with glitter was it was like shiny shrapnel, getting caught up in the wind and sticking in everything—and everyone—that it crossed paths with.
I had the shit in my suits, my hair, and my damn beard for a week straight after that. Hell, only a few weeks back, I’d found a bit of glitter on the bottom of one of my shoes in the closet.
The glitter flowers incident had been over a year before.
I didn’t see any glitter on the mysterious woman as I approached, but when it came to the herpes of the craft world, you could never be too careful.
She certainly acted sketchy, refusing to look at me at first even when she was speaking to me.
Then she turned, though, andfuck.
Yeah.
“Fuck” just about covered it.
First, it was the shock of it all.
But then it was the fact that she was every bit as gorgeous as I remembered. Maybe even more so.
I guess, over time, I’d convinced myself that the woman through the window hadn’t actually been as gorgeous as my memory wanted to make her out to be, that my overactive imagination had exaggerated her beauty a bit as the sharpness of the memory softened around the edges.
But, fuck, yeah, if anything, my memory didn’t do her any justice.
Her light, ashy blonde hair was pulled up, leaving just her bangs and the wispy bits at the edges of them to frame her face.
She had a soft face, no sharp edges. Her cheekbones weren’t overly high or dominant. Her nose was petite. Her lips were plump and soft-looking, and her eyes were heavy-lidded and the palest shade of green possible.
Fucking gorgeous.
